


You Rained On My Parade

by ifeelbetter



Series: Raining on Broadway [1]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Broadway, F/F, Gen, M/M, a cat named Bea Arthur, expressing your love through marginalia and post-its, post-its end up being really pivotal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-28 03:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15039740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifeelbetter/pseuds/ifeelbetter
Summary: Ever since his accident inSpider-Man: Turn Off The Darkended his Broadway career (and his marriage), Wade has worked as a script doctor. When his ex passes alongStryfe: The Musicalfor his help, Wade isn't expecting to hear back from the playwright. So he changed it from a grimdark manpain extravaganza to a rom-com about a couple and their rebellious son, that's no reason for Nate to bethisangry.





	1. Act One

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, adapted from the Streisand number in _Funny Girl_. Everything this fic is and is not is basically [swingsetindecember](http://swingsetindecember.tumblr.com/)'s fault. You should absolutely forward all complaints to her and whoever it was that gave me the prompt "Deadpool vs Broadway" on tumblr on anon.

As exes went, Nessa was the absolute best. They’d met before Wade’s accident when they were both in the chorus in, funnily enough, a production of Chorus Line. They had had that kind of chemistry that translates really well across thousands of seats so their respective stars had risen in unison, culminating in a tour of Evita with them both in the leads. It was the best of Wade’s life, but then the accident happened and no one wanted him on stage after that. 

_He_ didn’t want himself on stage after that. 

So better to let Nessa keep rising on her own ballast and, though they never said, Wade was pretty sure that’s what had driven them apart. She rose, he plummeted. He was an eyesore on opening nights and an awkward story in interviews and so he bowed out. Better to exist entirely outside the view of the audience. After a few fits and starts, he somehow had become the guy you sent your script or your song to when it needed that extra oomph. It wasn’t glamorous, but he got to work in his boxers and have a cat so. 

Nessa respected that part but she dug her heels in about letting him entirely off their interpersonal hook and so they’d settled into a sort of extra-level of friendship. Friends who didn’t sleep together, but who had all the closeness of a married couple. It was strange for both of them but, then again, also shockingly natural. 

So when she turned up at his door, it wasn’t entirely unprecedented. She did still have a key. 

“Neena needs you to look at this script,” she announced, dropping her coat onto the radiator that doubled as a coat rack. 

“Hello, Ness,” Wade said without looking up from the notes he was writing on a ballad. “I’m fine, thanks, how are things with you?” 

She ignored that and ploughed on. “Neena says the songs are on point, but the plot is a mess.” She tossed the script onto the sofa next to him. “Hi, Wade,” she added. 

Bea Arthur meowed to announce that she was in the room and also infinitely more important than anything else Nessa might have going on. Nessa picked her up and started scratching behind her ears. 

Wade finished the page and pushed the song to the side to take a look at Nessa’ script. “Why isn’t Neena asking me?” he asked. The title on the front read, _Stryfe: The Musical_ , which. Yikes. 

“She’s herding the playwright,” Nessa said and sat on the arm of the sofa, still holding Bea. There was nowhere for her to sit on the actual sofa unless she could find a way to fit into the recently-vacated Bea-sized space. Otherwise, it was burrito wrappers and scripts as far as the eye could see. 

“Ugh, _no_ , Ness,” Wade whined. “I don’t want to deal with one of _those_.” But he kept flipping through the script. It almost worked as a comedy, it was _that_ grimdark. 

“Just skip to the love song,” Ness said, depositing Bea back in her place so she could reach over Wade and flip to the song. 

Wade hummed a few bars and it definitely had a melody you’d get stuck in your head. A nice lilt too. The words were somehow both sad and uplifting at the same time. It was….really, really good. 

“I dunno,” he said. The title was _Stryfe_. Could he even save it? 

Ness huffed in exasperation and plucked the the score out of the bunch of papers, leaving him with the script. She took it over to his tiny upright piano and started playing. It was more of a waltz than he’d thought. It was a little quaint, but also earnest and sweet. Exactly what you want in a love song. Then Ness started to sing the words and they were incredibly simple, which somehow made the song even prettier. 

And then he looked back at the script.

“Hang on a sec,” he said, flipping back a couple pages and then back again, “is this a love song from an evil twin to his brother’s wife?”

Ness kept singing, but she nodded. 

“No, Ness, no. No. No no no,” he said. “Ness, she _dies_ in this song!”

Ness stopped singing and swung around back to face him. 

“That’s what I said,” she explained. “Or, actually, what Neena said. The songs are great, but the plot’s a mess.”

Wade was still skimming, increasingly horrified. “The protagonist has the most confusing backstory _in the entire world_. Is he from the future or not?”

“You see the problem.”

“ _The_ problem? I see, like, _twenty_ problems.” He pointed down at the page. “What even is his name? He’s got like _six_.”

“So you’re on board,” said Ness in that decisive we’ve-finished-talking-about-this tone that, while Wade’s absolute favorite back when they were knocking boots, wasn’t at all his favorite when he’d have to take on flaming trash-fire scripts. 

But she was also right. You just had to refocus the book around that love song. It was such a beautiful song, it deserved to be at the absolute heart of any show it was in. 

And now Wade had plans. 

Nessa ate all his leftover chow mein before leaving. He didn’t notice.

* * *

It actually wasn’t that hard to change the story into a love story. It also leant itself to more comedy that way and Wade was happy to let the finished product turn into a romantic comedy. He ditched the confusing backstories---for _everyone_ , jeez louise did this playwright love to tie his characters up into pretzels. He turned the fridged wife into the protagonist instead of the moody dude. She was plucky. He gave them a kid.

He was in the middle of trying to plot out what their kid would be like when Russell called. 

“What?” he said, propping the phone against his shoulder. The fight song from the war in Act II could absolutely be changed into a petty teenager’s rebellion. He jotted a note down to remind himself. 

“You gotta talk to Mom,” said Russell. “I just want the _one_ tattoo, man, it’s, like, not even a big deal.”

“She’s not my mom,” said Wade absently. Then he frowned. “Hang on, she’s not your mom either.”

“Whatever, man--” 

What came next was one of those long rambling explanations about how Russell was being “kept down” by the “Man.” Russell was being temporarily housed by one of the foster families who was once lucky enough to have also housed Wade. Even though Wade wasn’t too attached to the foster family, he’d somehow ended up accidentally almost-family to Russell. He wasn’t entirely sure how the chain of custody had worked there. 

“.... and that’s why I want ‘firefist’ spelled out across my knuckles,” Russell was finishing saying when Wade tuned back in. 

“Fire fist?”

“Yeah, but, like, one word.”

“Like...psoriasis?” Wade asked. “Or a rash?” He frowned. “Also, I don’t think you can make it one word when it’s separated by the fact that you have….you know, two hands.” He turned both of his own fists to face himself and, nope, no way to spell out “firefist” on one hand. 

Russell seemed to consider this. 

“I don’t think anyone would get it,” said Wade. “Maybe get it on some stickers? Put it on your locker?”

Russell liked that alternative. Wade would have to remember to send his former foster parents a text later about this. _Mental note,_ he said to himself. 

Actually, the evil twin from the musical seemed a lot better suited to being an angry teenager. Wade would just re-write a few lyrics, transpose a couple of scenes….it was basically already in the book. 

When Russell hung up a few minutes later, Wade began to rewrite the war song from Act II to be about a teenager who wanted to tattoo “firefist” on his knuckles. 

If only Russell could play this part. He’d be _so perfect_.

* * *

It was Tuesday the next day which meant that Piotr, the landlord and part-time dance instructor, was going to go to his rehearsals in his crop top and leggings. Wade was fresh out of inspiration for the moment (and any day could be improved by Piotr in a crop top and leggings) so he made sure he was sitting on the steps of their apartment building when it came time for Piotr to leave.

He was wearing his hoodie, hood pulled as far over his eyes at it went so that no one was really at an angle to see his face. Or his scars. 

He had the duet in Act II stuck in his head and hummed it while he waited. 

“доброе утро, Wade,” said Piotr. It was early Spring so everyone else on the street, including Wade, was still wearing their coats and their scarves. Not so for this blessed Russian hunk of beef. 

“Wanna thank your mother for a butt like that,” said Wade. “Can I get some fries with that shake-shake booty--”

“Yes, Wade, you have sung me this song many times,” said Piotr. “You like my ass. This is old news.”

Wade feigned shock, pressing a hand to his chest. “I am _maligned_ ,” he said in a faux Southern belle accent. “My affections are being _disparaged_.” He grinned and dropped the accent. “I don’t ‘like’” he dropped air quotes around the word “dat ass, I would put a ring on it if I could.”

Piotr rolled his eyes. “Will you be coming to dinner? Ellie will be bringing her girlfriend.”

And while Wade could happily (and shamelessly) hit on Piotr till the cows came home, it always gave him that goose-pimply feeling when Piotr made actual overtures of friendship. 

“Yeah, OK,” he said, tugging on the string of his hoodie. 

Piotr nodded. “Come by early, you can tell me about this script Nessa gave you.” He shouldered his gym bag and left. 

“Hate to lose you, but love to watch you leave,” shouted Wade after him.

* * *

Wade typed furiously all day and had most of Act I done by the time he had to go down to annoy Piotr while he cooked. Piotr always acted as if Wade needed an invite to Tuesday Stroganoff---which, he did, probably, since it was hard for Wade to tell when he had worn out his welcome---but Wade had been coming for months by that point. Piotr had sat with Wade after Wade and Nessa were finished, he’d got drunk with Wade when the weight of everyone staring had gotten too much, and in return, Wade had become a quasi-babysitter-slash-friend who came to Tuesday Stroganoff and occasionally threw Piotr the odd job doing to choreography what Wade did to scripts. It worked for them.

When he met them, Ellie was just reaching the age where she shaved her head and hated everyone so she and Wade got along like a house on fire from day one. So far, the house had still not _actually_ caught fire, but it was a close thing. 

So he spent the evening eating stroganoff, being wildly in favor of Ellie’s girlfriend, and talking through his new plot for _Stryfe: The Musical_. 

“You can’t call it that anymore,” said Ellie. 

“No, I guess not,” agreed Wade. He’d cut the titular character, after all, and replaced him with a thinly veiled version of Russell. “Suggestions?”

“ _I Am Secretly A Cinnamon Roll: The Musical_?” Ellie suggested. She caught the dinner roll Wade threw at her. 

“Wade,” said Piotr making Disappointed Dad face. “Do not throw food.”

“I would _never_ ,” said Wade, crossing his heart. Yukio giggled. 

“Do you not worry that you have changed this man’s script so entirely?” asked Piotr. Then he nudged the salad towards Wade. “Also, you should eat more vegetables.”

It made Wade roll his eyes but he could always use some more green leafy so he gave himself another helping. It was also part of their routine: in a few minutes, Piotr would start eding the stroganoff towards him as well. 

“I mean, it’s what I do, right?” he said, answering the first part. “Nobody’s ever had a problem before.”

“That you know of,” Piotr clarified. 

“That I know of,” Wade agreed. 

“Just be careful, Wade.” Piotr started pushing the stogranoff in his direction, right on cue. 

What was there to be careful of, anyway? Wade was fixing things. Nobody ever objects to a script doctor.

* * *

A week later, Wade emailed the new book to Neena. It had been a big job, but also somehow more like uncovering the subtext than writing new text. The songs themselves had been the biggest help. Wade had just sort of….re-arranged them. But the time-travelling and the space war had all been metaphors for this already, obviously. He just moved the subtext up to the text. Hardly even a big change.

Wade had so thoroughly put the job from his mind that he was tooling around with another song, not even one for work, just something of his own. He hadn’t done that in a long time. Probably as far back as his MFA at Tisch. 

And all of that was why he was so very surprised to get a knock on his door (when he hadn’t even ordered any chimichangas in, like, an hour) and even more surprised to find a short, middle-aged, incredibly buff dude on his doorstep. 

“You ruined my script!” the dude said, waving a printed copy of the revised _Stryfe_ script chockablock with a rainbow of post-it notes. 

“I definitely didn’t,” said Wade. “ _You_ ruined your script. _I_ resuciated it.”

“You changed the genre!” It was raining out so the dude was soaked through. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and glared even harder. “You changed _the title_.”

“Is time-travelling grimdark even a genre?” Wade waved the dude in. “You might as well come in.”

The dude wiped his feet on the welcome mat Wade had honestly completely forgotten he owned. It said, “Hope you like cats” written on it. No one had ever used it to Wade’s knowledge. He was pretty sure he himself had not bought it, actually. He was pretty sure Piotr had put welcome mats outside of all the apartments somewhere around six months previously. 

Wade watched him wipe his feet, fascinated. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked because he felt like he had dropped into a Tennessee Williams play where manners suddenly mattered. If life was going to take a sharp turn into _The Glass Menagerie_ , Wade was gonna lay claim to playing the Amanda role good and fast. Heaven forfend against having to be the _Tom_. 

“You changed everything in my play,” the dude accused, holding the play in one hand and tapping it angrily with the other. 

“You’re dripping,” said Wade.

“Stop changing the subject!” 

“I could get you a towel?”

“I don’t want a towel, I want my script back!” The dude huffed angrily and made a huge squelching sound when he took a step towards the window. 

“You really look like you need a towel,” said Wade. 

The guy sighed and closed his eyes. Wade knew all about this. People closed their eyes and counted to ten all the time when he was around. It was a Thing. So he waited until the dude’s eyes were open again before he repeated himself. 

“It’s just...you’re really wet. Like. _Really_ wet,” he clarified. “And I have towels! Clean towels!” He leaned back so he could see into his own bathroom down the hall and qualified: “well, _one_ clean towel.”

“....OK, give me a towel.” How did the guy manage to make that sound like _he_ was doing _Wade_ the favor?

“Faster than you can say, ‘Bob’s your uncle,’” said Wade. It was even true since Wade’s apartment was tiny and the bathroom was only a couple of feet down the hallway. “Voila--”

But the guy had stripped out of his artisanal scarf and his v-neck t-shirt and was wringing both out over Wade’s sink. One arm was absolutely not flesh, it was some kind of very shiny metal. It did not at all detract from the visual. If Wade was being honest, it was more of a benefit. 

“Usually there are introductions before the nudity,” said Wade, as close to speechless as he ever got. “I’m Wade, the script doctor who saved your show. And you are….?”

“Nathan. I’m the playwright whose play you mutilated,” said the guy, taking the towel and rubbing it through his hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "доброе утро" means "Good morning" according to Google translate and youtube.


	2. The Bridge

“‘Mutilated’ is such a strong word,” said Wade. “And if I remember my Merriam Webster correctly, you’ve got me on the ‘inflict disgurement’ on a technicality, but I hardly used _violence_.”

Nathan continued twisting his t-shirt over the sink. “Don’t split hairs,” he said. 

“Uh, I _always_ split hairs,” said Wade. “That’s something you should know about me if we’re going to be best buds.”

“We’re _not_ \--” Nathan took another deep breath and re-started. “I just want you to email Neena and tell her it was a mistake. Take it back or whatever.”

Wade snorted. “Not a chance.”

“I’ll take my name off it,” Nathan threatened. He probably was used to being one of those threatening, potentially ex-military (where _else_ did a dude end up with a fancy prosthetic like that?), imposing types of dudes who nobody disagrees with. But, soaked as he was, he mostly looked like Bea Arthur after that time Wade had to give her a bath after the chewing gum incident so, no, Wade was not particularly intimidated. 

He shrugged. “You pull your name, the show does not go on.” He paused. “I mean, the song says the show _must_ go on, and you clearly know your musical theater canon sooooooo…”

Nathan started to pull the wet t-shirt back on and Wade found he had unplumbed depths of generosity in himself. Enough to offer: “You want a dry t-shirt?”

Nathan’s expression flitted between “aggravated” and “confused,” and Wade decided that was his favorite thing _ever_. 

“I’m here to yell at you and you’re offering me….a t-shirt?” Nathan clarified. Oh man, he was fun. 

“Yeah,” said Wade. “I’m weird like that.” And he didn’t wait for an answer, he just headed back to his bedroom and picked the first clean t-shirt out of the “clean” laundry pile. (Wade was thoroughly of the opinion that putting laundry away was The Worst so had two habitual piles of “last time I did laundry” and “next time I will do laundry.” He picked the t-shirt off the former.)

“Here,” he said, returning to his kitchenette with the t-shirt. Nathan took it and sniffed it suspiciously. 

“It’s clean,” Nathan confirmed, clearly surprised. Wade was thrilled. Paranoid, grumpy, and hot. What a killer combination. 

“I do laundry sometimes!” Wade protested half-heartedly. At the moment, he himself was wearing yesterday’s t-shirt and sweatpants, so it’s not like he was a paragon of laundry or anything. 

Nathan didn’t deign to answer that one and pulled the shirt on. It happened to be Wade’s pink t-shirt that said, “Mess with the unicorn, you get the HORN!” and had a majestic unicorn shaking her fabulous locks in front of a rainbow. Wade hadn’t even aimed, he really hadn’t, but this was _amazing_. 

“You look wonderful,” said Wade earnestly. “Do you want tea? Tequila? Fresca?”

“Tequila? At _noon_?” asked Nathan, dripping with sarcasm. 

“You look like you’re in that _Mad Men_ age bracket, I don’t know what kind of day-drinking you’re accustomed to.” Wade cocked his head to the side. “So that’s a no on the tequila?”

“Jesus.” 

“I have _banging_ tea. I could make tea.” Wade waved towards the electric kettle on his kitchen counter. Its mere presence proved that Wade knew his way around a cuppa. This was no American household of microwaved Lipton’s, OK? 

“I’m not here for tea!”

“....so the Fresca then?”

“Look,” said Nathan, folding his _enormous_ arms in an absolute feint for authority. “If you’re not going to take back your rewrite, do you at least take notes?”

Wade was fascinated. No one had ever tried to give _him_ notes before. Usually, he emailed his changes and then…..someone else worked it out. It’s not like there was a contractual obligation to accept his revisions or anything. If a playwright wanted to ignore his suggestions, they usually just...did. _This_ was new. And Wade was a sucker for novelty. 

“Sweet! Let’s do notes!” said Wade. “Real notes! Notes for _me_!” 

Nathan’s expression was tilting more towards “confused” than “grumpy” and, goodness gracious, Wade would _have_ to kidnap him. He was the _most_ fun. Piotr had stopped making Confused Face at Wade, like, five minutes into meeting him. Nathan’s Confused Face was _the best_ and, in a very mixed metaphor, it had legs. It had endurance. Wade wanted to bottle that Confused Face. 

“Do I read your notes or do you shout them at me?” asked Wade, excited. “Wait, do we have to go somewhere else? You’ve got that Starbucks-hipster aesthetic.” He considered Nathan. “Is this space _right_ for your critical vibe?”

Nathan had landed fully in Confused Face territory by this point. 

“Just….Just read my goddamn notes and get back to me.” 

He shoved the somewhat soggy---but, actually, considering how soaked Nathan himself had been, surprisingly _un_ -soaked script at Wade. Wade had forgotten about the rainbow of post-it notes and the...oh man, there were actual red-ink notes in the margins!

“This is getting dangerously close to my sexy teacher kink,” he informed the script. If only there was a grade. That would have been _so hot_.

“Um,” said Nathan. He visibly got a grip on himself, rallying as best he could. (Wade could have pinched his cheeks, it was so adorable!) “Just….just read them. And. Get back to me.”

And with that, Nathan rushed back out into the hall and, presumably, then back into the rain. What Drama. 

“We’re going to BFFs,” Wade told Bea Arthur when she came out from under the sofa. She meowed sarcastically back at him.

* * *

Nathan’s notes started with proper proofreading symbols---hot---but quickly devolved into “NO!” written in the margins again and again. He seemed most upset by the Russell-stand in. There was an especially angry tangent across the entire margin of the page and four post-its during faux-Russell’s solo about wanting a tattoo.

**No self-respecting child would ever, EVER want such a mind-numbingly stupid tattoo, let alone fight a pair of loving parents on the point!**

“Shows what you know,” muttered Wade. Russell had called three times that weekend with new ideas for what his knuckle tattoo should say and each time Wade had only barely talked him out of it by pointing out that you’d need two four-letter words, not one eight-letter word. 

There was another especially long diatribe when Nathan had realized that Aliya, the fridged wife, had been un-fridged. 

**The whole POINT of this character was to symbolize the inevitable failure of the nuclear family! She died BECAUSE NO NUCLEAR FAMILY SURVIVES.**

“Wow, downer much?” muttered Wade. He was going to have to get some post-it notes of his own. 

He flipped around a bit more, got bored of the novelty of getting notes, and decided to get to the heart of the matter. 

So Nathan had wanted his show to be about the futility of human connection. Fuck that. Wade could edit it a bit more, tweak a few things, so that there would be more angst in Act II before the resolution. But it was actually idiotic to think _this_ show, with its marshmallow love song core, was going to be about the futility of human connection. 

Also those were always dumb. And Sondheim had already _done_ all the “futility of human connection” shows musical theater could carry as a genre. 

He made the compromised changes. And then he realized he needed more post-its. Or. You know. _Any_ post-its at all.

* * *

“Piotr, open up! I have a post-it emergency!” Wade said, banging on Piotr’s door.

“Wade, I am _coming_ , be _patient_!” came the muffled reply. 

“Is that the _shower_ I hear?” asked Wade, pressing his ear to the door. “If you’re naked, I am breaking the door down.”

Mrs Keene, the dignified elderly widow who lived next to Piotr cracked her door open just enough to pop her head out. 

“Don’t worry, Mrs Keene,” Wade told her. “You’re definitely invited.”

She shut the door.

“Come _on_ , you beautiful tropical fish,” said Wade, banging on the door again. “Post-its wait for no man!”

Piotr opened the door in only a towel. Wade whistled appreciatively. 

“I’m telling you it’s real and I love your sex appeal,” he rapped, “Say I don’t like ‘em bony, I want something I can grab--”

Piotr looked curious. “Is this new song? About asses?”

Wade made a gesture like weighing two options. “Kind of about asses, but among other things. Not new, you’re just _so old_. Mostly about how” and he switched back to rapping “my anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hun!”

“Is still old news, my friend,” said Piotr. He stepped back so Wade could follow him back into his apartment. “You said you had an emergency?”

“Not an _emergency_ per se,” Wade clarified. “Just need post-its to write an angry monologue.”

Piotr shrugged. “Ellie has post-its for studying. She does not like the pink ones.” He rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a couple pads of the pink ones. 

“Lucky for me, I love pink,” said Wade, taking them. 

“Yes, Wade, I am aware.”

“It’s like red, but friendlier.”

“You have said.” Piotr went back into his bedroom and Wade used the opportunity to rummage through the drawer the post-its came from for himself. He stole a couple more of other colors just to annoy Ellie later. 

“Have you considered perhaps using Microsoft Word for this monologue?” Piotr called from his bedroom. 

“Not that kind of monologue,” Wade called back. There was also a sparkly pen in the drawer and he stole that too. “This is the ‘you gave me notes for my rewrites and this is why they’re wrong’ kind of monologue.”

“Is this about that script still?” Piotr came back wearing shorts, leg warmers, and no shirt. “I am surprised. You do not usually linger so long on one project.”

“Yeah, he came by yesterday and he wouldn’t even drink my banging tea,” said Wade, hurriedly closing the drawer. “He was all” and here he dropped his voice an octave or two to really capture the _essence_ of Nathan “‘Grrr you made my show too happy!’ But. Like. In post-its.”

“So you choose to respond to him also in post-its?”

“Well, he also has my unicorn shirt. I’m gonna get that back probably.”

Piotr made that face he always made when he thought he knew Mature Responsible Adult Things about Wade. Wade _hated_ that face. 

“Don’t make that face,” he whined. 

“Perhaps you should make your monologue to him in person,” suggested Piotr. Ugh, he was trying to be _sneaky_ , he was the _worst_ at sneaky. “Maybe you bring him some coffee as well.”

“A whole _world_ of nope,” said Wade. “He’s like a hundred years old.”

“You _like_ older men.”

“I like all of everybody, that’s completely not the point,” said Wade. “I am definitely making him my new BFF, though.” It was meant as a threat. 

Piotr shrugged. “Still. Maybe bring him some coffee. Make your monologue to his face.”

“Shuddup, you know nothing,” said Wade, waving his advice away and backing out of his apartment. “People just get drawn into your abs, you don’t know how the ab-less live.”

He tried to get out the door before Piotr said something horrifyingly supportive. 

“You have fine abs, Wade!” Piotr called just as the door closed. 

“Ugh,” said Wade, thoroughly heartfelt. 

He could do both. He’d write his post-it monologue and then….he’d drop it by the theater. Hand deliver it, so to speak. Maybe he’d bring coffee. Maybe he wouldn’t.

* * *

“I have brought you a unicorn frappuccino,” said Wade to Nathan when he found him at the counter of the Starbucks next door to Neena’s theater, “to exchange for my unicorn t-shirt.”

Nathan was wearing another scarf, but he also had a tweed jacket with elbow patches on. And thick-rimmed glasses. 

“Unf,” Wade said. 

“I don’t have your shirt with me,” said Nathan, suspicious and awkward. “Because I didn’t know when--I didn’t know _that_ I would see you again.”

Wade shrugged. “Fine, keep my baby hostage. I know where you work.” He waggled the unicorn frappuccino in Nathan’s face. “That’s no reason to look gift horses in the mouth.”

“That’s not what that means,” said Nathan, but he took the drink. He didn’t drink it though. He placed it next to the folder he had hastily closed when Wade sat next to him. 

“I have notes on your notes,” said Wade. He had printed out the new draft and attached his own post-its. “A new draft _and_ notes on your notes. When it rains it pours.”

“That’s not what _that_ means either.” Nathan took the script. 

While Nathan flipped through, Wade subtly slid the folder filled with headshots Nathan had been flipping through towards himself. He knew a lot of the faces. Judging by the familiar Neena-chickenscratch scrawled across some, Neena wanted to hire Peter Parker for the male lead. 

“Oh, no, waaaaaay too young,” said Wade. He pulled a post-it from his back pocket and made a note. “Petey-Pete has too much of a twink vibe, you know?”

Nathan looked over the rim of his glasses at Wade. 

“He played Spider-Man when you were in that show,” said Nathan. He said it all monotone so Wade couldn’t place it as sympathy, pity, or some kind of weird test. 

“That show was epic,” Wade agreed. “At least Pete and MJ got to perform at the Tonys before they shut us down.” He sighed. “ _So_ epic, alas, I hardly knew ye. Pour one out for _Spider-Man: Turn Off The Dark_.”

“I thought they pulled the show after your…” Nathan hesitated. 

“After my accident, yeah,” said Wade. “Worst luck.”

“I assumed you’d be...angry about it.”

Wade considered Nathan. It wasn’t a question, but it was...a real response. Not the false pity of the press and the fleeing funders at the time, but something more honest. 

“Show was great. Pete was _super_ great,” he said simply. Ugh, they had to get off this topic. “Unlike _Stryfe: The Musical_ , which was major suckage until I fixed it.” There! Conversation salvaged. 

“Hey,” said Nathan, his brow furrowing. “You just misunderstood the underlying message, it didn’t _suck_.”

“No, _you_ missed the underlying message.” Wade spun on his stool. 

“I _wrote_ it, I can’t miss my own underlying message.”

“And yet,” said Wade, coming to a stop, “here we are.”

Nathan glared at the script. “So it’s still a happy ending.”

“My professional opinion,” said Wade and Nathan snorted. “ _My professional opinion_ ,” Wade repeated, “as an actual script doctor is that you have nothing but marshmallows on the inside and grimdark doesn’t suit you.”

“I don’t have marshmallows--” Nathan sighed and took off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “It’s not a happy story, Wade.”

“It _is_ , though.” Wade flipped to the love song, which Wade had placed at the end of Act I. “It’s a love story. As long as everybody survives, love stories are happy.”

“They’re really not,” said Nathan, gloomy. “They’re not even _usually_ happy. They almost always crash and burn.”

“Yikes, dude, dial back the Sartre,” said Wade. “Look, I don’t know you, but you wrote a bunch of songs about people loving each other and then you tried to shoehorn them into a plot about people hating each other. You can’t have it both ways and, let’s be real, the songs were the best part.”

“It’s that simple, huh?”

“Is it the masculinity thing? Big machismo can’t be a lover, art school hipsters have to hate happy endings?” asked Wade, stealing the un-drunk unicorn frappuccino back. If Nathan wouldn’t drink it, Wade would. 

Nathan sighed. “Maybe,” he agreed after a pause, proving yet again that Wade needed to keep this dude. That was _so_ not the answer he expected. 

“You know Neena loves my version, right?” Wade continued, sensing he was close to carrying the day. “And Neena’s got those instincts she gets the big bucks for, right?”

“Yeah,” said Nathan reluctantly. 

“Great! So we’re leaning into the love story and letting the time travel grimdark die its grimdark death, right?” 

“Ugh,” said Nathan. A long pause. “Fine.”

“Sweet,” said Wade. “Also I turned the war number from Act II into a polka.”

And they were off, back into the bickering.

* * *

Somehow, Nathan kept fighting Wade on the details well into rehearsals. Wade assumed that losing the war had made him get fixated on winning individual battles. He kept showing up at Wade’s apartment with _more post-its_ and then Wade would have to go track him down at the theater the next day and fight about making the duet three-quarter-time or whether the high F was too much for the actress playing the lead.

Wade was seeing more of Nate---the nickname he had switched to after about a week when he realized it made Nate go a little red---than he was of Bea Arthur, who was still hiding under the sofa every time Nate dropped by. He hadn’t expected the BFF campaign to go so swimmingly, especially since he never got around to planning out an actual campaign. 

Maybe he was just that good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The love song from _Spiderman: Into the Dark_ absolutely [did make it to the Tony's in 2011](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8b_NX2-vQ0). You may well wonder how Peter and MJ could be playing Spider-Man and his love interest when they are, in fact, themselves Peter and MJ, but, to paraphrase the intro to MSK3K, you should really just relax. That way only migraines lie.
> 
> Also, if you were wondering how Wade could be disfigured by the show and still think it was great, you should know that [a real stuntman who cracked his skull after falling thirty feet](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8F4PE3TVhO8) in one of the shows _rejoined the cast_ afterwards. Theater people, man. They are hardcore. Also, I never saw the show.


	3. The Crisis

Neena brought Wade a iced venti chestnut praline frappuccino one Tuesday morning because she was a very good person who just _got him_. It was high summer by that point and no Starbucks Wade had been to in months had kept the chestnut praline syrup in stock.

“I got them to put in an extra seven pumps for you,” said Neena. 

“How do you always find the Starbucks with the good shit and I never do?” asked Wade, making grabby hands at the drink. 

“Luck,” she said. 

“That’s not a thing.”

She shrugged. It was an old argument. 

“I’m here about the production number in Act II,” she said. “I think it needs something.”

“Is this a ‘me’ something or a ‘Piotr’ something?” asked Wade. He took a sip and, yes, it was so sugary he could feel time moving. 

“I think it’s a Piotr thing,” said Neena. “I’ve never worked with him before and Nessa said I should get you to ask him.”

Weird. It’s not like Wade had some sort of special pull on Piotr just because he also happened to live in his building. 

“I mean, sure, but I don’t see why you can’t just ask him yourself,” said Wade, leaving Neena on the sofa while he retreated into his bedroom. If he was going down to Piotr’s floor, he should probably put pants on. 

“Dunno, but Nessa said to,” called Neena. Then there was the low cooing sound that meant she had discovered Bea Arthur’s hiding spot of the moment. For some reason, Neena was an exception to Bea’s otherwise universal dislike of non-Wade and non-Nessa people. Wade found a pair of jeans and pulled them on, still hopping into them as he went back into the hallway. 

“Classy,” said Neena. Bea Arthur was sitting on her shoulder. They both looked disdainful. Rude. 

She followed him down the stairs to Piotr’s ground-floor apartment chatting about the show (that Wade was trying to name “X-Force.” No one else seemed to be on board).

And, duh, of course Piotr was home and of course he was willing to come take a look at the choreography for the production number. He was even willing to drop everything that very second and…. actually, that was suspicious. 

“Hang on, don’t you always spend Tuesdays stroganoff-ing?” said Wade, narrowing his eyes. 

“Your friend needs my help, Wade,” said Piotr in his Mature Adult Responsible voice. God, he even straightened up a little when he switched to Mature Adult Responsible voice, and the dude was at least seven feet tall slouched. 

“You’re cancelling Tuesday Stroganoff because some rando wants you to come watch her rehearsal?” Wade was still skeptical. Piotr’s version of sneaky was a virtuous version of sneaky, but it was still sneaky. 

“Hey,” said Neena mildly. 

“I can make stroganoff tomorrow. Today, we visit this show.” And Piotr looked so pleased about it that Wade was already crammed in an uber between Neena and Piotr before he realized he himself actually had zero reasons to tag along. 

Funny how that happened. Wade almost said something to Piotr about these new depths of sneakiness, but Piotr was radiating such wholesomeness that it seemed impossible to accuse him of anything underhanded. 

At least he had put on pants before Neena tricked him into going downstairs.

* * *

Rehearsals had just started to move from the rehearsal space upstairs to the theater itself because the sets had just been finished. There was still that woody smell of carpentry clinging to everything when Neena led them inside.

“This is a very impressive accomplishment, Neena,” said Piotr earnestly. 

“Yeah, whatever,” she said. Someone had left an unopened box of Jujubees on one of the audience seats and she claimed it. “I’m gonna round everybody up for the production number, won’t be five minutes.”

When she left, Piotr turned to Wade. 

“Is perhaps your playwright _friend_ ” oh no, he made little quotes when he said ‘friend,’ Wade was in so much trouble “going to be here today?”

“Nate _is_ my friend,” he whined. “He’s my best friend of all time. I upgraded from Russians who meddle and I’ve never been happier.” He poked Piotr in the absurdly solid chest for emphasis. 

Piotr chuckled and clapped Wade on the shoulder jovially. 

“I do not doubt that this _friend_ \--”

“Oh god, just stop emphasizing it like that, it’s so _creepy_!” Wade interrupted, talking over Piotr and trying to flick him in the ear. 

“--sees your many charms, yes?” Piotr finished. Wade’s flick on the ear landed more on his neck and he just seemed amused. 

“My _charms_?” Wade was aghast. Agog. Confounded. Discombobulated. “ _My_ charms?”

“You are a very charming man, Wade,” said Piotr. 

“You just…you just. Just _shut up_ ,” said Wade, flustered. “I have no idea if Nate’s here today.” 

“Perhaps you look for him now and I change into dancing clothes,” said Piotr. How he could make a sentence both an invitation and a directive, Wade could never figure out.

* * *

Wade found Nate hiding in the balcony seats. He had that sullen hunch to his shoulders that Wade was learning to associate with someone disrespecting Art or Wade himself being particularly annoying.

“What’s cooking, good looking?” asked Wade as he dropped into the seat next to Nate. 

“Nothing,” said Nate. “Shouldn’t you be giving your….friend a tour?” The pause before the word ‘friend’ was tiny but audible. 

“What is it with people not believing I have any friends today?” asked Wade, directing the question at the ceiling. “Not for nothing, but a _lot_ of people think I bring the conversational sparkle to a social setting. I’m a boon to any friendship I deign to make.”

“No, that’s not what I--” Nate started to say, but stopped himself. “I don’t doubt that you have a lot of friends.”

“Damn straight,” said Wade and then snorted at his own choice of words. “I mean, not _straight_. Damn right? Too political. Damn skippy?” Huh. What _was_ the linguistic turn of phrase for the un-straights of the world?

“Of fucking course you’re not,” muttered Nate, still grouchy. Wade followed his line of sight and could just see Piotr climbing onto the stage. 

“I came up here to get you to meet him,” said Wade, jutting his chin towards Piotr. “He’s a gem, and I’m not even just talking about those diamond-hard abs. Everybody loves him, he’ll have your frown turned upside down before you can say, ‘Jack Robinson.’”

Nate’s frown only darkened. “Somehow, I don’t think it will work on me,” he predicted gloomily. 

“No, he’s really great!” protested Wade. “Don’t be deceived by the fact he hangs around with the likes of me. He’s top shelf hunka man.” Wade stood and started waving Nate to follow. 

“Come _on_ ,” he whined, drawing out the vowels. 

Nate sighed but at least he followed Wade back to the ground floor.

* * *

Later, Piotr took five and all the dancers started to stretch. When Piotr leaned down to pick up his water bottle, Wade couldn’t help himself.

“I like big butts and I cannot lie!” he called from the back of the audience where he was sitting with Nate. He cupped his hands so that his voice carried even further. “You other brothers can’t deny that when a boy walks in with an itty bitty waist and a round thing in your face--”

“Yes, Wade, I know,” said Piotr, jumping off the stage and heading towards them. “This is a song I already know. I think everyone knows that one.”

“--you get sprung!” Wade finished, grinning. “Can’t hate a classic.”

“Is this your _friend_ , the playwright of this impressive production?” asked Piotr. He still was doing to uncomfortable emphasis on the word “friend,” but at least he’d dropped the air quotes. 

“Piotr, this is Nate,” said Wade, pointing. “Nate, this is Piotr. He’s my...” oh damn. He should have planned ahead. Landlord? I mean, yes, Piotr was his landlord, but surely, _surely_ he wouldn’t object if Wade claimed him as a friend? Probably surely?

“Wade has told me many things about your show,” said Piotr, giving Wade a weird look. Wade couldn’t blame him. 

“I bet,” said Nate darkly. 

“He has made many changes to it, I think,” said Piotr. 

Nate grunted. 

“He is very talented man,” said Piotr significantly. “And has had many misfortunes in the past. People must take special care with him.”

“Oh my god,” said Wade. “Someone, kill me now.”

Nate grunted again.

“Wade will buy you a coffee now,” Piotr declared, clapping his hands. “And you will….talk. I must finish helping Neena.”

What was _wrong_ with Piotr today, that was what Wade wanted to know. It was like he’d accidentally flipped the “Russian mafia making you an offer you can’t refuse” switch and the “bad wingman” switch at the same time and they’d both got stuck. He tried to give Piotr the “cease and desist” cue but it didn’t seem to land. Piotr should be giving Nate that old world charm, not this weird third degree. 

“I don’t need Wade to buy my coffee,” said Nate, still clearly in a snit. 

Piotr shrugged. “Then perhaps you will buy him the coffee.”

“Yeah, Nate, buy me a coffee,” said Wade. Better to cut his losses and run. He grabbed Nate’s flesh hand and pulled. “Buy me coffee, buy me coffee, buy me coffee--”

“Jesus, _fine_ ,” said Nate, but it looked like he’d unclenched marginally. “Don’t know why you don’t just mainline the sugar, the way you drink coffee.”

“Sacrilege! Slander!” shouted Wade, still pulling Nate towards the door. “Just because you drink yours as black as your soul is no reason to hate on me taking advantage of our advance civilization’s best and brightest.”

* * *

Wade only had to tease and wheedle for a scant ten minutes before the corner of Nate’s mouth was curling slightly upwards. A half hour later and he got the full smile. It was amazing how a smile changed Nate’s face. It was especially good when Nate said something funny and Wade could see him trying to not show that he wanted to laugh at his own joke. And when Wade laughed, Nate seemed to catch it from the air between them.

Wade even forgot to put his hood back up when it slipped down after he leaned back into a belly laugh. It just didn’t occur to him until after, when they were walking back to the theater together, bumping their arms together as they walked.

* * *

“I do not understand how this happened,” said Piotr the next day. “I thought it was very clear that you were to begin your relationship during this ‘coffee date.”

Ugh, the return of the air quotes. 

“Nobody puts air quotes on a coffee date,” said Wade, dangling upside down off Piotr’s coach. “Except, actually, maybe it applies because that wasn’t a coffee date.”

“Did he not express a desire to be your boyfriend?” asked Piotr. “I was so sure he would do so.”

“You’re hilarious, dude,” said Wade. “Nate is, like, at least three leagues out of my league.”

“I do not like it when you talk like this about yourself, my friend,” said Piotr. “You would make anyone an excellent partner.”

“Stooooop,” whined Wade, plugging his ears. “I can’t hear you, I can’t hear you.”

Piotr chuckled. He looked at his watch and said, “I’m afraid I must leave now. I have a class shortly.”

“Ooh, angry teenagers or tiny humans?” asked Wade, pulling his fingers out of his ears. 

Piotr taught two classes at his studio, one for teenagers (of which Ellie was his star pupil and by far the gothest ballerina that ever was) and one for ages three to four. It was mostly pink tights and “Heads, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes” set to classical music. Wade adored it. 

“It is the children’s class today,” said Piotr, plucking his keys from the hook by the door. “We could use a pianist today, Kurt has the flu.”

“You had me at the tiny tulle on tiny humans,” said Wade. He did a quick check of his person and he probably wouldn’t offend or shock anyone. No stains, no visible red lace, and he was wearing pants. Victories all around. 

“Thank you,” said Piotr, too earnest again. Wade plugged his ears again and threatened to start singing to drown him out.

* * *

Wade had been to Excalibur a couple of times, mostly on the days when he knew for a fact that Piotr was in a crop top or when Piotr was going to be working one-on-one with Ellie. They were both incredibly impressive, so much so that Wade sometimes even forgot to catcall. But the days when Piotr taught the tiny kids were Wade’s absolute favorite.

He had a passing familiarity with Piotr’s fellow teachers, enough to know most of them by name. So he knew the tiny brunette finishing up her lesson with the tweens was named “Kitty” and that she was some kind of incredibly important ballerina heavyweight. Except. You know. Not very heavy at all.

And then Piotr walked into the wall. 

“Wow, walk much?” said Wade. “Hey, what did the fish say when he hit the wall?”

“ай,” said Piotr, rubbing his forehead. 

“‘Dam!’ Get it?” Wade tilted his head. “Cuz if the fish runs into the---you get it, right?”

“I get it, Wade,” said Piotr. 

“Hi, Piotr!” said Kitty. 

Piotr’s mouth opened and no sound came out. 

“Hi, Kitty,” said Wade. He spoke slowly, as a demonstration for what Piotr should repeat. 

“Kitty. Hello.” Piotr rubbed behind his neck nervously. “Hi.”

“Wow,” said Wade, thrilled. 

“Sorry we’re running late,” said Kitty. “Hope’s mom is out of town and her dad’s supposed to pick her up---oh, that’s probably him.”

She waved over their shoulders to someone behind them. 

“Mr. Summers?” she asked. 

Wade turned around and….that was Nate. 

“Wade?” asked Nate. 

“Nate?” asked Wade. 

“Mr. Summers?” asked Kitty, giving Wade a weird look. “Your daughter is just over here.”

And sure enough, there was a tween with bright red hair and a very familiar jawline waiting on the bench down the hall, just out of range of the flock of babies in tulle who were waiting for their turn in the studio. 

“Hope?” said Nate. 

Oh. Her name was Hope. 

Wade had been an unruly kid himself. He’d bounced around foster homes and had generally gotten the fuzzy end of the lollipop of life in his pre-legal adult years. And that gave him a sixth sense in a very niche field: he could always tell when a kid was feeding their parent some bullshit. 

And that was written _all_ over Hope Summers. 

First of all, there was the fact that she was clearly disdainful of the tiny tulle fluff roaming the hallway like tiny drunk ballerinas. Secondly, there was the fact that Kitty had been known to run some crazy schemes in the name of children following their dreams. Thirdly, there was the fact that Hope’s bag had the trademark white dobok from the taekwondo dojang downstairs peeping out from between the zipper. 

Wade was no Sherlock Holmes, but he could put the pieces together: Nate’s kid was supposed to be in Kitty’s Wednesday afternoon dance class, but had switched to taking taekwondo instead. Clearly, she had Kitty’s blessing, but damn. Nate was being run one hell of a con. 

“Hi, Hope,” said Wade. He faked dropping his cell phone beside her and surreptitiously tucked the dobok back into the bag while he fumbled for his phone. “Whoops. So clumsy.”

Hope gave him the solid eye contact of a practiced liar. But she did kick the bag a little under the bench as he stood up. Smart. Clever. Resourceful. 

“I’m Wade,” he said, holding out a hand. 

She raised an eyebrow at his outstretched hand and then looked to her dad. “This dude a friend of yours?” she asked. 

Nate nodded. 

“I fixed his play,” said Wade. 

“Ooooh,” said Hope, making some mental connection Wade couldn’t follow. “OK.” She shook his hand. “I’m his kid.”

“That part I figured out,” said Wade. “Didn’t know he had a kid.”

Hope snorted. 

“It didn’t come up,” said Nate. Hope turned her raised eyebrow on him. “It _didn’t_.”

Piotr finally finished making awkward small talk with Kitty in the doorway of the class and noticed that Nate and Hope were there. 

“Ah, Nate! You have a child!” he said, thrilled. There has never been a man as thrilled about the product of procreation as Piotr, this Wade was sure of. 

“Him too?” asked Hope, still giving her dad The Eyebrow. 

“Ugh,” said Nate. “It _didn’t come up_.”

“I will make stroganoff for us all tonight!” declared Piotr. “Nate, you must come. Bring Hope. You can meet my daughter, Ellie.”

“She’s not really his daughter,” said Wade. 

“She _is_ my daughter,” said Piotr. “We just wait for paperwork.”

“You want us to...come for dinner?” asked Nate, wary and confused. 

“His stroganoff is really good,” said Wade. 

“Yeah, dad, I’ve never tried stroganoff,” said Hope, doing the most abrupt shift from “uninterested” to “wheedling child” Wade had ever seen. Mad props, this kid had game. “Can we _please_?”

Wow, Nate folded easy. 

“Um,” he said. “Sure?”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Piotr, clapping Nate on the shoulder. Nate swayed a little. “But now, sadly, Wade and I are needed elsewhere.”

And it was true, the tiny pink tulle kidlets had all toddled their way into the studio. Wade turned to follow Piotr in, but not before he caught Hope very clearly making the “I’m watching you” gesture between her eyes and him. 

OK, that wasn’t scary at all. 

What a crazy cool kid.

* * *

Class went well even and Wade nearly died when Piotr led the entire class in an exercise on tempo where they all slapped the floor in rhythm. He was only barely able to maintain a steady beat on the piano through it all. Thank goodness he got a good view of behind him through the big studio mirrors.

He also could clearly see Kitty come out of her office and linger by the door while Piotr let tiny dancer after tiny dancer step on his feet as he whisked them around the studio.

* * *

Ellie brought Yukio to dinner, which was not a surprise.

“Hi, Yukio,” called Wade as they went past where he was parked again upside down on Piotr’s coach. 

“Hi, Wade!” she said, big sunny grin and all. 

“Wade,” said Ellie, not looking up from her phone. 

“I heard you have boy trouble,” said Yukio. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“What?” Wade harrumphed. “I have no boy troubles. I have no boys.”

“There, there,” said Yukio and patted his knee. “I bet Nate will call you.”

“That’s not--what--” spluttered Wade, “--you’ve _completely_ misunderstood _everything_.”

“Oh, is it that bad?” she asked. 

“It’s that bad,” confirmed Ellie, still not looking up from her phone. 

“There is no ‘it’!” Wade protested. “Bad or otherwise!”

“Nate has a daughter and he has agreed to come to dinner tonight,” called Piotr from the kitchen. “I call this progress.”

“There’s nothing to progress! Nothing is happening!” called Wade back at the same time as both Ellie and Yukio simultaneously said, “Ooooh” like they were watching a fireworks show. 

“I have already explained to Nate that Wade is an excellent catch,” said Piotr, coming to lean on the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. “I think he will ask you out tonight.”

“That’s! Not! On! The! Agenda!” said Wade, clapping between words. 

Why did nobody listen to him?

* * *

Yukio decided to shoo him back up to his apartment to change his clothes about an hour before Nate and Hope were expected. Wade rolled his eyes a lot, but nobody seemed move by his protestations of innocence about romantic entanglements.

But playing dress-up with Yukio was fun. She picked the outfits, he modeled, they made his hallway into an impromptu runway with the disco ball and strobe light he kept in the closet. Ellie joined them after about Outfit #12, the one with fishnets and tulle. He was pretty sure she was making an instagram story out of this, but hey. What the hell. 

Yukio eventually declared a winner and they returned downstairs just as Nate and Hope were buzzing the front door. Nate was holding a pie in a specifically pie-shaped traveling porcelain pie dish. It had happy little porcelain apples as a knob.

“Ellie---the ‘daughter’” and Wade did air quotes around the word ‘daughter’ and Ellie elbowed him in the ribs “--oof--and her girlfriend, Yukio.” Wade said, pointing. “You can tell because she’s the one that reminds you of rainbows.”

“Hi!” said Yukio. 

“And this is Nate and Hope,” said Wade, pointing at them in turn. 

“Where should I…” said Nate, holding up the adorable pie dish. 

“This way,” said Ellie, finally looking up from her phone. She sniffed in the general direction of the pie. “Did you make that?”

“He’s great at pie,” said Hope. “This one’s cherry.” 

Ellie looked vaguely impressed. She waved Nate after her and started to lead the way down to her and Piotr’s apartment. 

Hope hung back and Wade waited for whatever she wanted to say.

“You’re not gonna tell him about the taekwondo, right?” she said. 

He crossed his heart. “Promise.”

She sighed, relieved. “I just….the tap class was _so_ boring and then I saw them having a match through the window and Ms. Pryde said she didn’t think I should take tap if I didn’t like it and--”

“Kid, it’s all cool,” said Wade. “Taekwondo is awesome. And tap’s awesome too, but only if you think it’s awesome.” He shrugged. “I mean, I like it, but it’s not for everyone.”

“Yeah,” said Hope, fervent. 

“Is there a possibility that your dad would get that maybe?” asked Wade. “He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“I dunno,” said Hope. “He _really_ liked tap dance when he was my age.”

“Hold on, I need to paint that whole entire mental picture for a second,” said Wade, closing his eyes. Hope giggled. “It’s just...that’s the best mental picture I’ve had in _days_. Weeks. _Years_!”

He reached out for Hope’s hand and she grabbed it, held it as they went down the stairs to join everyone else.

* * *

It became clear very quickly that Piotr’s malfunction of the day before had not yet worn off. He continued to assert Wade’s better qualities very loudly and had added waggling his eyebrows occasionally, oddly timed so that even Wade couldn’t tell whether the long description of his performance in the ‘05 production of The Drowsy Chaperone was supposed to be full of innuendo or not. Wade wanted to melt into a puddle of _nope_ and Ellie made another Instagram story.

Nate stayed mostly silent, though not so sullen as the day before. He made a visible effort to respond to Piotr, regardless of how absurd Piotr was being. It was nice. Gentlemanly, even. 

Hope was a delight, of course. _She_ kept egging Piotr on, demanding more stories about Wade’s former career on Broadway. When Wade tried to redirect towards _anything_ else, she gave him the Eyebrow and repeated her latest question to Piotr. 

As she finished eating, she declared, “I like you, Wade.” 

“You’re not so bad yourself, short stuff,” he responded. She _was_ cool and everybody Wade had ever liked best had at one point or another spent an evening or two digging around in his backstory. So. She was welcome to it. 

Nate’s face had gone all soft and warm. Wade had liked the reluctant smiles and the almost laughs before, but _soft_ and _warm_ was the best one yet. Wade knew it was directed towards Nate’s kid, but then Nate turned it on Wade and Wade…..

...felt things. 

Oh no. 

Wade hadn’t been joking about Nate being a couple of leagues beyond out of Wade’s league. And it had been funny that Piotr had been so insistent that Nate was here to---that Nate would _consider_ \---

\--but it actually wasn’t funny. It was impossible. Wade had a face full of burns. He hid in his apartment most days. He was a crazy cat lady. Hot dudes with cool kids and a soon-to-be hit show don’t---they just don’t. 

Nate’s soft smile faltered as Wade kept staring at him. Did he _know_ about Wade’s stupid feelings? Had he know before Wade knew?

“I think it’s time for Dad’s pie,” said Hope and it was like time started spooling forward again for Wade. Only now, like Neo in the Matrix, he was seeing the code. 

Wade was going to get his stupid feelings all over everybody if he didn’t lock this shit down. And everybody would….laugh or maybe they’d just leave or maybe just tell _him_ to leave. 

Better to just eat his pie and then retreat back to his apartment and to Bea Arthur where it was safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those not in the know, Hope Summers is a real character in X-Men comic books. In the films, she's barely referenced beyond being a generic child who Cable lost as symbolized by the charred bear. But in the comic books, there's a really, really adorable saga where (for plot reasons) Nate is trying to raise her as a kidlet in the wilderness, often alone. There's a particularly adorable exchange with Wade re:diapers. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [ifeelbetterer](http://ifeelbetterer.tumblr.com)!


	4. Denoument

The next couple of days, Wade wallowed. He ignored Neena’s texts, didn’t buzz the door when Nate came by, and generally fulfilled his promise to himself of just staying in his apartment and waiting the feelings out. When he refused to get out of bed, Bea Arthur seemed to take it in stride and took to sleeping on his chest. This gave him extra incentive and Absolutely Rational reasons to not get out of bed ever again ever. 

Piotr knocked on his door a couple of times, but Bea Arthur was a champ and hissed at him when he tried to use his master key to get in. Also, Wade had the deadbolt chain hooked so Piotr couldn’t do more than crack the door open and call Wade’s name. 

Wade ignored him. 

_Why_ had the _stupid_ feelings decided to inflict themselves on him? He had had a perfect plan! Nate was awesome and Wade was well within his rights to make a claim on some friend real estate. People were supposed to make grabs on each other’s friend real estate! It was, in fact, the only method of making friends Wade had ever had any success with. 

But _feelings_. Wade was a pariah of feelings. They never worked out for him. Just look at how things had crashed and burned with Nessa. Wade and feelings were like….they were _worse_ than oil and vinegar, because at least oil and vinegar could combine to make a delicious salad dressing. Wade and feelings just bounced off each other, leaving him bruised and sad. He hated being bruised and sad. 

Yukio knocked on his door. Bea Arthur darted under the bed. 

“Wade, can I do my homework in your apartment? Ellie’s music is very loud,” called Yukio. It was a thin excuse since Yukio was widely known to be a fan of anything Ellie liked. 

Wade rolled over and sighed at the ceiling of his bedroom. 

“Do you promise not to talk about any feelings?” he called back. 

“Just homework, I promise,” she said earnestly. 

He sighed again. He’d need a shirt at the very least. He’d have to stand up and put a shirt on. He’d have to stand up and _find_ a shirt and then put it on. It all seemed enormously hard. 

“It’s just my history homework,” Yukio called through the door. “I need to study for my exam.”

Ugh, helping Yukio study for history tests was his _favorite_. It might even vaguely be worth all the hassle of finding a shirt. 

He sighed a third time and rolled upwards. The two laundry piles had more or less disintegrated or had somehow become one (1) floor covered in clothes. It might have happened when he kicked them after coming back from dinner the other night. 

He pulled on the saddest t-shirt his entire floor had to offer. It just said in in big block letters, “SORRY I’M LIKE THIS.” Yes, that was exactly the Mood. 

He undid the chain and opened the door. 

“Do you have flashcards?” he asked. 

Yukio smiled and held them out. 

“Can I quiz you,” he asked, voice small. 

“Please,” she said and didn’t even comment on her way in that there were taco wrappers and empty pizza boxes everywhere.

* * *

Quizzing Yukio for an hour was good. He felt marginally more human and less like a mound of feelings by the end of it. The fact that these were flashcards he remembered from last week and that she already clearly had thoroughly memorized was….it was generous. Or nice.

And she patted him on the head when she left, her fingertips brushing the patch of missing hair and scar tissue by his temple. That was nice too.

* * *

He scrolled through his inbox, but nobody had a job for him. He needed something to do, something that would be an excellent reason to be busy if Nate tried to drop by again.

(He hadn’t, he’d only tried that one time. He’d looked up at Wade’s window and maybe he saw Wade hiding behind the curtain, maybe he didn’t. But he’d just nodded and left.)

Then he noticed an email forwarded from Neena through Nessa. The subject line said: “FWD: YOU SACK OF SHIT DON’T IGNORE MY TEXTS.” And. That was a lot of capslock for Neena. Neena usually stayed in the happy middle of the emotional drama scale, hardly ever going above a six in intensity or below a three in downer. She tended to respond to Wade’s exuberance with shrugging or by throwing things at him. 

He opened the email. 

**Don’t make me the mailman between you again. xoxo Nessa**

Fair. That was totally fair. 

The rest of the message was the invitation to Neena’s opening night….to _Nate_ ’s opening night. They’d finally re-named the show. It was apparently called _Providence_ now. 

“Weird religious connotations notwithstanding,” said Wade, addressing Bea Arthur, “that really works.”

She meowed and climbed over his keyboard to rub her face under his chin and somehow opened a reply to Nessa while doing so. 

Well, it was as good a start as any. 

**Sorry, Ness** , he wrote. **I have been very busy**.

“Come on, brain, think of something that counts as busy,” he muttered. 

**I have been writing a play of my own.**

“Yes, that’s good. That sounds productive and not mopey at all. Like a grown up. Let’s level up the Adulting. Toss some emotional maturity in here to really throw her off.”

**I’m trying something new. I think I’m ready to start producing my own content, not just fix other people’s, you know?**

“Oh, man, that’s so good. That sounds so responsible.” 

Bea Arthur purred. 

He signed it and sent. 

“Oh, shit,” he said as the penny dropped. “Now I have to write a goddamned play.”

* * *

He texted Neena later and agreed to go to the opening night. He’d wear the tux he kept exclusively for opening nights of plays of friends and he’d hide behind a potted plant all night. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

He waited while Neena scolded him for ignoring her. 

That took a while. 

**I am not responsible for your emotional shit, Wilson** , she wrote. 

“Super true,” he agreed out loud. He apologized again.

**I am trying to put on a goddamn Broadway musical here** , she added. **I don’t have time for this shit.**

“Super duper my bad,” he agreed and texted it back. 

She was eventually mollified, especially when he used the excuse about writing his own play. Everybody was loving this development. He’d have to….really, actually do it. 

As he continued to text Neena, he opened a blank document on his laptop. Then he started typing.

* * *

Opening night was loud. Wade preferred to eschew the limos and instead take the subway and then sort of….mosey around the outskirts of the red carpet. It wasn’t like anyone ever recognized him or knew how he was connected to a show. Script doctors were secret. If a show was a big enough hit, there might be a line on the wikipedia page someday bungling what he actually contributed, but nobody on opening night was supposed to know that he was attached.

Nessa waved to him while she was being photographed by like twenty dudes, all shouting at her to “smile” or “turn this way.” He gave a little wave back and then faked innocently looking for someone behind him when a couple of the reporters and press turned to see who Vanessa Carlysle was waving at. 

Maybe someone would have placed him as her ex if he’d still had his movie star good looks. Nobody ever placed him with his face full of scars, totally bared without his habitual hoodie. He wasn’t _ashamed_ of the scars, he just. He just prefered to hide them, is all. And himself. Hiding all around. 

Nate arrived with a beautiful red-haired woman in a sparkling green gown. Hope crawled out of the limo behind them and she was wearing a tiny tux of her own. What a completely cool kid. Nate and the woman had to linger at just about every reporter on the red carpet so Hope ducked around them and looked around, clearly a little overwhelmed by all the shouting and the flashing lights. 

“Hope!” called Wade before he could think better of it. “Over here, Hope!”

She shielded her eyes to see through the wall of flashes and shouting press in front of her and spotted him. He didn’t imagine the sheer relief on her face as she made her way towards him. 

“Hi, Wade!” she said and hugged him. Wade had not been expecting _that_. He awkwardly patted her. 

“Hi, Hope,” he said. 

“There are a lot more people here this time than last time,” she said when she pulled back. “Last time was, like, off-off-off-off Broadway.”

“Yeah, I’m not really a fan of when it gets like this either,” agreed Wade. 

He couldn’t help staring towards Nate and the beautiful redhead in the absolutely killer gown. 

“That’s my mom,” said Hope, following his line of sight. “She’s a lawyer.”

“Of course she is,” muttered Wade. 

“She’s an environmental lawyer,” said Hope reproachfully. “That means she’s one of the good guys.”

“I am absolutely unsurprised,” said Wade. 

“Only lawyers are usually snakes, just not environmental lawyers,” said Hope. “And when my parents got divorced, they both said they didn’t want to get involved with snake lawyers. So they got a different kind of lawyer and he arbitrated and now they don’t even get angry at each so much.”

“Seriously, kid, this is none of my business,” said Wade. 

Hope shrugged. “My dad likes you, so.”

Wade glanced down at her. She was making the sneaky face again. 

“I told Dad about the taekwondo, and you were right,” she said. “He didn’t get mad.” She paused, looking out towards her parents. “He calls the matches, ‘performances,’” she said finally. “And he brought me flowers the first time he came to one.”

“Sweet,” said Wade. “I love flowers.” He gave her a fist bump. 

“Mom says he’s been a sadsack lately,” she continued. “I’m pretty sure that has something to do with you not letting him bring you more post-its.”

“You get that I was employed to give him revisions of his script, right?” Wade pointed out. “The script of the show we are here to see on opening night. No more revisions equals no more post-its.”

Hope gave him the Eyebrow. 

“Yeah, but he probably just likes giving you the post-its,” she said. “So just let him bring you post-its again, OK?”

Wade looked back towards Nate and his ex and….Nate was watching him. He nodded towards Wade, subtle and understated. No Feelings in an understated nod. Nothing like the butterflies setting up shop in Wade’s gut. 

But Hope had a point. Nate was excellent Best Bud material and Wade would probably someday get over his stupid feelings and he’d better not have burned this bridge before they could even get to that nice, platonic balance. 

Wade gave a little wave and smiled. Nate did that stupidly alluring sad half-smile, the one Wade liked so much. He looked warmer, though. Like something had settled happily back down onto his shoulders. 

Wade gestured towards Hope and himself and pointed inside the building. Nate nodded. They both knew Nate and his date were not going to be released from the reporters until the very last minute, so Hope was in better hands with Wade anyway. 

“Why don’t I give you a tour,” suggested Wade. “It’s boring out here.”

Hope gave him a skeptical look. “Aren’t all theaters basically the same?” she said, unimpressed. 

Wade shrugged. “Yeah, but I know where Neena keeps her candy stash.”

Hope nodded. “Sold.”

They went inside and it was their lucky day: Neena’s stash included five packages of Reese’s peanut butter cups.

* * *

Wade’s seat was in the balcony and Hope’s was by her dad’s, right in the orchestra. He tucked the last package of Reese’s into her jacket pocket when it was about ten minutes to curtain and walked her to the nearest usher in her section. He retreated when she waved to Nate and his ex who were already in their seats.

Baby steps. He’d made good progress with making eye contact and a mimed conversation about babysitting without getting his stupid feelings everywhere, no need to press his luck. Maybe tomorrow he’d have graduated to saying “hello” on the street without heart palpitations. 

He spent the last ten minutes before curtain getting to know the old lady in the seat next to him. She was blind and her name was Al and, apparently, her niece was in the chorus. 

“You need a running commentary?” asked Wade. 

She looked surprised and skeptical. “Can you do it quietly?”

“Pssh,” he said. No, no he couldn’t be quiet. But he’d be thorough. 

She didn’t tell him not to, so he spent the play focused on quietly describing the sets and what the actors were doing and what they looked like. It was nice. It was a lot like what he did when he worked: he had to step back and see the show all over again, really just _see_ it for the first time again for Al. 

Nate had kept the bones of all the songs, but a lot of the lyrics had been nudged slightly. The characters were so richly drawn too. Wade actually teared up while the wife character sang about how she had fallen in love with her husband, how she’d been looking everywhere else but at him and then suddenly: there he was. And then the husband sang a song about quietly, patiently loving her without asking for anything in return and then it turned a duet, both songs intertwining perfectly and….yep, Wade cried. 

“Jesus, you’re a mess,” Al told him and handed him a tissue from her purse. 

“Thanks,” he said. “They’re doing a really beautiful Viennese waltz now.”

Al patted him on the back as he continued to describe how the dancers moved.

* * *

During intermission, he told Al about his play, the one he had accidentally conned himself into writing.

“So your protagonist is so ugly that no one could ever love him, huh?” said Al. She folded her arms and faced a skeptical look vaguely in Wade’s direction. 

“Yeah, especially not the beautiful hero he’s in love with,” said Wade. “It’s very...um. It’s very Deep.”

“Sure,” said Al sarcastically. 

“It _is_ ,” said Wade. 

“Well, you’re the expert, not me,” said Al and shrugged. “Sounds like a lot of feeling sorry for yourself to me.”

“It’s _not_ ,” insisted Wade. “It’s about the human condition!”

“Ugh, don’t get me started on the ‘human condition,’” said Al.

* * *

Afterwards, he helped Al climb down the stairs and make her way through the crowd after the curtain call. Before she left, he got her phone number. He was getting real “best bud” vibes from her too. And he’d need a new best bud while he was working back up to being Nate’s best bud without butterfly feelings accosting him at every side.

“Are you eight years old? Act your age,” said Al when he told her he was going to make her his newest best bud. 

“Never,” he said solemnly. “Never, ever.”

She laughed and made her way down the sidewalk. She waved without looking back. 

He lingered just long enough to see Nate’s ex bustle a sleepy Hope into a limo and kiss Nate on the cheek as a goodbye. He wasn’t sure if Nate spotted him, but he ducked down the street and lost himself in the dispersing audience. 

Too soon. Too many feelings. Baby steps.

* * *

He spent the next week getting lost in his play about an unlovable monster. He tried very hard to steer away from territory that had already been covered by either _The Phantom of the Opera_ or _The Elephant Man_ , but the overlap was dangerously close.

No matter. There’s always room for another play about a monster and a pretty young ingenue, even if Wade’s pretty young ingenue was neither young nor female. 

He agreed to go to Stroganoff Tuesday if Piotr swore not to mention Nate, dating Nate, or Wade having feelings. Piotr spent the whole meal looking sad at him and spooning extra helpings onto Wade’s plate. This wasn’t ideal, but it was acceptable and delicious. 

Even Ellie was less bristly than usual. She made Wade a Spotify playlist of the most pathetic love songs from the Broadway canon and, yes, that was meant to mock him, but joke was on her. Wade spent a good week singing along loudly to “Can’t Help Loving That Man Of Mine” and “Losing My Mind” while typing. 

And, yes, he cry-sang them in the shower a couple of times too. 

It was fine. He was fine.

* * *

Nessa came over unannounced finally. She threw the door open and dumped her large straw hat on the radiator by the door. It was a muggy, wet-hot day and Wade’s air conditioning was on the fritz again. He would have told Piotr, but then he’d have had to go downstairs and face his Sad Face again to do so. He had chosen cowardice and soaking in his own sweat instead.

“It’s disgusting in here, Wade,” announced Nessa. “I think it’s even hotter in here than it is outside.”

“Hi, Nessa, I’m fine, how are things with you?” he said, not looking up from his laptop. He was sprawled belly-down on the hardwood floor, Bea Arthur bully-up sprawled beside him. They weren’t touching by mutual agreement re: heat. 

Bea Arthur opened one eye and meowed pathetically at Nessa. 

“Look what you’re putting poor Bea Arthur through,” said Nessa as she knelt down to scratch behind her ears. “Hi, Wade,” she added. 

In the background, Ellie’s playlist was still playing. It had reached “On My Own.” Wade slapped Nessa’s hand when she tried to reach over him to pause the song. 

“This is real sad shit,” Nessa pointed out. “You’re living in squalor, you’ve turned on Saddest Hits of Broadway, and it doesn’t look like you’ve showered in days.”

“I’m _writing_ ,” said Wade, pointing to the screen. “I’m an artist working at his craft.”

“Looks a lot like you’re wallowing,” said Nessa. She made another feint for the playlist and Wade blocked her, but it was cover for her real goal: closing the laptop wholesale. 

“Hey,” he protested.

“You _smell_ like you’re wallowing,” she said. 

Wade sniffed under an armpit. Welp. She wasn’t wrong. 

“Go shower, Wade,” she ordered. 

“Ugh, fine,” he agreed. He pushed the laptop towards her. “I could use some feedback anyway. I’ve got Act I mostly done.”

She shrugged and waved him towards the bathroom. 

He pulled out his phone to continue playing the playlist from the speaker in the bathroom. He sang along obnoxiously loudly to “On My Own” and accidentally made himself cry a little. Well, that backfired.

* * *

Nessa also made him sit on the stoop and eat popsicles with her. Piotr and Ellie joined them. It turned out that Ellie had been sending all of her most embarrassing videos of Wade to Nessa, but she’d recently redirected her energy towards taking and sending videos of Piotr spilling coffee over himself every time Kitty spoke to him at the studio.

Piotr blushed but laughed with them as they watched an especially good video of him trying to put a new gallon of water on the water cooler and flooding the floor instead when Kitty smiled at him. 

“It was a very big mess,” said Piotr, scratching the back of his neck. “I apologized many times.”

Ellie patted his arm. “You’ll figure out a way to talk to her. I have faith in you.”

Ugh, so many feelings from so many different directions. It wsas like being uselessly in love with Nate had opened Wade up to having all kinds of feelings. He had been feelings-proof before! 

“That’s so dumb,” he said unconvincingly, wiping at his eyes. 

“Oh, my friend,” said Piotr, making Sad Face again. He pulled Wade into a tight hug, the kind that Wade was pretty sure crushed his ribs a little bit but was also sooooo good. “I am sorry for your unhappiness.”

“Nooooo,” whined Wade, half-heartedly flailing. His heart wasn’t in the protest, though.

* * *

When Nessa left, she promised to have notes for Wade on Act I soon.

“You are clearly not up to taking care of yourself right now,” she pointed out. “I’ll be back to feed and water you.”

And his stupid feelings-ridden eyes filled with tears again. 

“Thanks, Ness,” he said. 

She kissed him on the cheek and then patted the spot she had just pressed her lips to. 

“I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,” she said sadly. She didn’t wait for him to respond, she just swept out the door. 

Ugh. _Ugh_. Maybe she was catching the feelings. Maybe feelings were contagious.

* * *

When his buzzer buzzed the next day, he assumed it was the delivery guy and buzzed them in without checking. It was a rainy day, and Wade had been Not In The Mood for going outside lately, even without the pouring rain. He was also in the middle of writing a very sad, very poignant speech about how the world was a Sad and Dark Place and no one can ever be happy. He was too busy to make chit-chat with the delivery guy.

When the knock came on his door moments later, he opened it also without looking through the peephole. 

And that was why he was so very, very surprised to find Nate in his doorway, soaked through _again_.

“You have the worst luck with the weather,” said Wade, his mouth running quite a bit ahead of his brain as it rebooted. 

“I never carry an umbrella,” said Nate. “I probably should.”

“With your luck?” asked Wade. “You should probably also have snow shoes. You know. Cover your bases.”

Nate laughed. It was a _real_ laugh, not the hesitant kind he usually used where he was clearly laughing against his better judgement. Wade was enthralled and the damn butterflies were back in his gut. 

“Can I come in?” asked Nate. 

“...in here?” clarified Wade stupidly. “Into my apartment?”

Nate laughed again and nodded. 

“Um. Yes?” said Wade and stepped back to let Nate in. 

Nate squelched in his shoes as he walked by Wade. Such deja vu, seriously. 

“Do you want a--”

“A towel would be nice,” said Nate, smiling. “And a change of clothes, if you have it.”

“Considering you’re still holding my unicorn shirt hostage, I don’t know if I should negotiate additional hostages,” said Wade. “Seems like a kind of lose-lose for me.”

Nate shrugged. “Or I can just keep dripping on your sofa.”

Wade shook his head. “You’ve got me there,” he said. He tossed Nate a towel when he reached the bathroom and then kicked his way through the clothes on the floor for something clean. He found a pair of Piotr’s sweatpants---probably big enough for Nate in girth, but he’d end up rolling the legs up and that would be be just so damned cute---and another t-shirt. This one said, “I work hard so my cat can live a better life.” It had a happy little kitten face in the middle. 

It was only when he handed the clothes over that he realized Nate was actually carrying something. It was a stack of paper, covered in red ink and post-its again. 

“What is--” he started to ask, but Nate started stripping out of his shirt so Wade swiveled as fast as he could to face the far wall. The butterflies had turned into a small army of warrior butterflies who would not be denied at the dripping abs and the….everything. 

“What. Um. Is,” he tried again and had to clear his throat. “What’s with the….post-its?”

The rustling of changing clothes stopped so Wade risked turning back to face Nate. He’d changed into the new outfit and the t-shirt stretched amazingly and the rolled-up sweatpants were everything Wade dreamed they’d be. _And_ he was folding his soaking wet clothes into a neat pile like an adorable dork. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Nate and retrieved the pile of papers from the sofa before handing them over to Wade, “but Nessa came by with a copy of your play.”

“Act I of my play,” corrected Wade. Then his brain caught up. “Wait, _what_?”

“And I have some notes,” said Nate. “I think you missed the underlying message.”

“I _wrote_ the…” said Wade and trailed off. “Why are you here?” he asked after a pause. 

“I thought you were dating your Russian friend,” said Nate, squaring his shoulders like he was advancing into enemy territory.

“I’m not dating Piotr.”

“No, Nessa already said. She said you sing songs to his butt, but that doesn’t mean you’re dating.”

“I sing songs _about_ his butt, not--”

“And I was really hoping that since you’re not dating _him_ ,” said Nate, ploughing ahead and taking a step towards Wade, “that you’d consider dating me.”

“Like….on a date?” Wade was so trailing behind stupidly in this conversation. “On a date with you? And with...and with me?”

“Exactly that kind of date, yes,” said Nate and took another step closer. “And you should probably say something now if you object to me kissing you.”

“If I _object_ \--” Wade started to say, still stupidly trailing five minutes behind, but Nate had clearly gotten tired of waiting for him to catch up. He pushed that last little bit of space forward and kissed Wade. He tasted mostly of rainwater and coffee. Wade almost forgot to kiss back, but he caught up eventually. 

“Like _dating_ , you mean like _actual_ \--” he said when he pulled back a moment later, but Nate just grunted and pulled him in again. 

Wade consented to be kissed. He consented vociferously. 

“Oh, and I added some songs,” said Nate, suddenly pulling back. 

“...to dating?” asked Wade, punchdrunk from the kissing and not his own native stupidity this time. 

“No, to your play,” Nate corrected, running his thumb across Wade’s bottom lip. “And I made it a romantic comedy.”

“You changed my genre?” asked Wade. 

“Yeah, well, it’s a love story,” said Nate. “Those usually end happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Saddest Songs of Broadway that Wade mentions are: "[Can't Help Lovin That Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFev0w7VgK8)" from _Showboat_ , which is like the ur-sad-Broadway-love-song, "[Losing My Mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoZVxPTvGp4)" from _Follies_ (I linked here to Jeremy Jordan singing it, but it's another traditionally female song. You should definitely use Jeremy Jordan's version for your imaginary version of Wade singing along in the shower), and, finally, of course, "[On My Own](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VjfmP7h3gBw)" from _Les Miz_ (done here in its best iteration by Lea Salonga).
> 
> ~~Also, anybody up for an epilogue?~~
> 
> OK, so an epilogue is FOR SURE happening. The people have spoken!
> 
> You can find me on tumblr as [ifeelbetterer](http://ifeelbetterer.tumblr.com)!


	5. Epilogue

While Wade wouldn’t call himself, orphan that he was, a challenge in the “meet the family” department (and also given that Nate began his relationship with Wade under a very enthusiastic seal of approval from Wade’s ex, landlord, and even the BFF he had picked up on opening night), there was still a somewhat-family member Nate hadn’t had the chance to meet yet. 

“Nah, man, we’re not buying Girl Scout cookies,” said Russell when he opened the door to Wade’s apartment and found Nate and Hope standing on the welcome mat. “Wade gets weird about them.” He closed the door. 

Wade scrambled from the kitchen to re-open the door. 

“OK, this is not what it looks like,” said Wade as he opened the door. And it’s true that if you wanted to distract your...um...the person with whom you are…. _your person_ from the fact that your sometimes-ish brother just shut the door in his face, you can absolutely open the door covered in green goo. 

“It looks like you tried to cook,” said Nate, smiling. 

“So maybe it’s exactly what it looks like.” Wade shrugged. 

“You know you didn’t have to, right?” said Nate and kissed Wade on the cheek, ignoring what must be the absolutely vile good all over his face. 

“Yuck,” said Hope. She had used the cover of their distraction to drag a finger down Wade’s arm and taste the green goo herself. 

“Wade, man, why are you letting the Girl Scouts in?” asked Russell, coming back into the room. He was hardly free from the green goo himself, but he’d escaped a lot more than Wade had. This was mostly because he was a coward who had ducked behind Wade when the pressure cooker exploded. 

“When your boyfriend gets here,” continued Russell, licking a spoon, “he is _not_ gonna be into you picking up random dudes.”

“They’re not the Girl Scouts,” whined Wade. “This _is_ my---my person that I---my--”

Nate snorted. “Your boyfriend, genius,” he finished for Wade. He’d had to do that a couple times already. 

“--my person of the male varietal--my--yeah, OK, you do it,” Wade conceded. 

“Hi, I’m Nate,” said Nate, holding a hand out towards Russell. “And this is my daughter, Hope.”

“Wade, he’s so _old_ ,” said Russell, wiping a hand on his jeans so he could shake Nate’s hand. 

“He’s _not_ \--” said Wade and then turned to Nate, “you’re really not that--”

“Is it a Daddy kink?” Russell continued knowingly over Wade, finally taking the offered hand. “Do you make Wade call you daddy? Like--” and here he dropped his voice conspiratorially without actually making it quiet enough that Wade didn’t have to hear “is that your _thing_?”

“Oh god,” said Wade. 

“No,” said Nate. He was doing the squared-shoulders-upright-back stance of absolute honesty that he did when he was uncomfortable but Dealing With It and Wade wanted desperately to save him. 

“Oooooh so Wade’s a twink?” continued Russell. “I did a google image search and I was like, ‘That’s probably not Wade,’ but, like, what do I know?”

“I’m not a twink,” said Wade, mildly offended. “I’m a twunk at best.”

“You’re not a--” started Nate, but Hope interrupted. 

“Dad, what’s a twink?” she asked, but she absolutely had that evil glint in her eye that she got when she was messing with Nate. Nate spluttered and turned red. 

“It’s a---a word for a---” he started to explain and Wade was into this dude, he really was, but _this_ he wasn’t going to save him from. “It’s a term? That, um, indicates that one man---who, who loves another man---”

“I should have recorded this,” said Russell, also rapt. 

“You really should have,” agreed Wade. 

“--and the other man? The other man, um, is--is, um, more physically imposing? Than the first man, um---the one who, um--”

“That sounds like you and Wade,” said Hope. “I mean, you’re definitely more _physically imposing_ than Wade.”

“Hey,” said Wade mildly. Even during the time in his career when he’d been dancing two shows six days a week, he hadn’t had biceps like _that_ , but it was the principle of the thing. 

“No, she’s right,” said Russell, nodding scientifically. 

Nate looked over at Wade, clearly floundering. 

“Hope, stop messing with your dad,” said Wade, finally taking pity on him. 

“Wait, she was--” Nate started to say as Hope simultaneously sighed and said, “ _Fine_.”

“So if Wade’s a twunk, are you a Bear?” asked Russell.

This time Hope looked honestly confused. “Hang on, what’s a Bear?”

Nate looked at Wade for confirmation that this was a Real Question---which, for Nate, was a challenge to his Dad credentials or something so he would always power through, no matter what the question was about. It was one of those stupidly adorable things that Nate did all the time, every day, without even thinking about it. 

“Russell, explain,” ordered Wade, “Nate, come look at the kitchen and freak out.”

“Shouldn’t I be--” Nate started to ask, but Wade hauled him bodily into the kitchen by grabbing his flesh hand and pulling. (Wade had already learned: do not pull the metal hand. At best, Nate didn’t notice he was being pulled. At worst? Awkward pop-goes-the-weasel and Wade would be left holding an arm.)

“Nah, Russell’s got this,” said Wade with feigned confidence. Russell’s explanation would be crazy, yes, but no worse than what Hope would have gotten if she’d googled it later. And chances were pretty good that they’d end up googling it anyway. 

And then Nate got distracted by the state of affairs in the kitchen. 

Since they had begun---begun spending a lot of time together in a romantic way, Nate had slowly and inexorably cleaned Wade’s entire apartment. Wade had never considered (a) that cleaning was fun or even really necessary or (b) that a man with a feather duster was capable of roiling with sexual tension, but. Lessons were learned by everyone. It turned out a lot of fun could be had while sorting laundry or scrubbing the baseboard. 

Wade basked in the quiet, horrified shock for a second before pulling Nate towards the pot that has stopped (mostly) boiling on the stove. He scooped a spoonful and held it out towards Nate. 

“You have to tell me what you think,” he instructed, putting on his best innocent expression. He was planning to pretend to be horribly insulted when Nate grimaced, maybe even knocked the spoon away (which would be great because _then_ Wade would spend all evening claiming that the mess was from Nate knocking the spoon away instead of from Wade and Russell attempting to cook in the first place). 

But Nate dutifully opened his mouth and actually reached out to shepherd Wade’s hand with the spoon towards his own open mouth. Wade was so surprised he actually did it, he fed Nate the spoonful of eldritch green horror. And Wade had gotten a faceful of the stuff earlier, he knew for a fact that it tasted like feet. 

“That’s good,” said Nate and, oh no. He was doing the thing, the one with the straight back and the squared shoulders. The “this is my duty and I will achieve this task” thing. 

“Oh, babe, _no_ ,” said Wade. “I didn’t think you’d actually--”

Wade was too moved by the spirit of the moment to bother finishing the sentence. Nate was too adorable, must be kissed. He kissed him thoroughly and it was only _slightly_ awkward that he was still clutching the spoon in the hand that was resting behind Nate’s head. The other hand was pulling Nate as close as possible around his waist because _this man_ , this wonderful man. 

When they finally parted, both panting a little bit, Nate smirked. “You really shouldn’t cook,” he said, wiping at some more of the green stuff caked on Wade’s face. 

“I really, really shouldn’t,” agreed Wade. He ducked back in for another kiss. 

And then they were interrupted by a loud banging on the door. 

“If it’s the pizza, I forgive him,” said Wade. “But otherwise, I am gonna cut a bitch.”

Nate blinked. (Wade was a big fan of kissing Nate until his brain slowed down.) “The pizza?”

“Yeah, you didn’t really think I was gonna make anyone eat this shit, right?” asked Wade, patting himself down for his wallet. “Got the Hawaiian for Hope, thin-crust organic margherita for you, right?”

Nate’s face went all warm and he kissed Wade again, not vehemently like a moment ago. Just a soft, delicate little thing that took Wade’s breath away all the same. 

“What was that for?” asked Wade. 

“You just--” said Nate, but the pounding on the door began again. 

“Wade! I must speak with you!” came Piotr’s voice. “It is an emergency!”

And, OK, Piotr had never banged down Wade’s door before so whatever the emergency was, it was important. Wade nearly broke the land speed record on his way to the door and even skidded a little into it. 

When he opened the door, Piotr immediately pulled him into a rib-crunching bear hug. 

“My friend!” bellowed Piotr in excitement. “She has texted me!”

“What,” gasped Wade. 

“Kitty has texted me!” Piotr said and released Wade enough to shove his phone in Wade’s face. It was far too close for Wade to read without going cross-eyed, so he took the phone. Piotr noticed Nate. 

“Nathan! My friend!” he said and pulled Nate into the next bone-grinding hug. “And Russell!” Russell was next. “This is a good day, my friends!”

“This text says she wants to be friends with benefits,” Wade pointed out, reading the screen of Piotr’s phone. 

“Yes, you see?” said Piotr. “We must first be friends, no love can be built without first a foundation of true friendship.”

“OK, but--”

“And this will allow us time to test our sexual compatibility,” Piotr added earnestly. “So that in time our intimacy may grow.”

“That’s not really what usually--” Wade started to protest, but Nate interrupted. 

“Well, if you know what you’re doing,” he said to Piotr, but seemed to be trying to communicate something with Wade through the power of intense eye contact. 

“But the whole point of a FWB situation is--” he started to protest again, but Nate cut him off a second time. 

“Congratulations, Piotr,” he said despite the fact that this would obviously lead to Piotr giving him another rib-crushing hug. He accepted the hug and patted Piotr’s back. 

“Thank you, my friends,” Piotr said, getting a little misty-eyed. “I am sorry to have interrupted your date, but I---Wade, what has _happened_ to your kitchen?” He had finally noticed the wreck. 

Thankfully for Wade, that was when the pizza really did arrive and he had to buzz the pizza guy in. Russell explained about the pressure cooker and the spinach while he did so, pointing to where the lid had gotten wedged into the ceiling. On a different night, Piotr would probably have been miffed about that, but he was too far into rainbows and kittens land to do anything but guffaw. 

“I wish you luck,” he said, still beaming when he left. 

After that, dinner was casual. Russell continued to pepper Nate with questions about his and Wade’s sex life (which Nate answered coolly), about Hope (which Nate answered by pulling out the string of pictures he kept in his wallet like an _old man_ ), and even about Nate’s prosthetic (which were asked with more tact than Wade had assumed Russell was capable of). Hope chimed in a couple of times, especially when Nate started to tell everyone about her victories in taekwondo but was apparently getting it “all wrong.” 

Wade had been to that match. Nate was transitioning slowly and awkwardly from Dance Dad to Sport Dad. He’d been a natural at Dance Dad, had known exactly when to bring roses and what was the thing to shower your daughter with praise about. He knew hardly anything about taekwondo that he hadn’t googled frantically and still had a bad habit of calling the matches “shows.” He was getting better at hiding the fact that he was in a state of desperate terror for the entirety of every match, though. This last time, he’d only clutched at Wade’s shoulder a couple of times and only needed to bury his face in Wade’s shirt once. It was progress. 

They talked and laughed and ate and then Nate slowly and inexorably started cleaning the kitchen. Russell and Hope played Mario Kart (which they both claimed was “super lame” but also both always played when they came over to Wade’s house) and Wade sat on the counter, singing “You’re the Top,” while Nate scrubbed. 

“You’re an O’Neill drama, you’re Whistler’s mama,” sang Wade, “you’re Camembert.”

Nate grinned without looking up at Wade. 

“You’re a rose, you’re Inferno’s Dante--”

Hope called from the other room, interrupting Wade’s song. “Mom just texted,” she said. “She’s gonna be here in five to pick me up.”

Wade fell off the counter. “She’s coming _here_?” he asked, squeaking in panic. 

Nate put down the sponge and looked worried. “Yes?” he asked. “Was I not supposed to tell her we were going to be here?”

“You were supposed to--” said Wade, struggling to find the words to express how very bad it would be to have Nate’s high-powered lawyer bombshell of an ex in the same room with him. The contrast alone would be devastating. Possibly even enough to make Nate wake up from whatever fever dream he’d been in for the past….god, had it been two months?

“She’s just coming to pick Hope up,” said Nate. He pulled Wade towards him by his belt loops and Wade went reluctantly. “She’ll be in and out so fast, you’ll hardly notice she was here.”

“That’s what she said,” said Wade glumly. 

It had to end at some point. There was only so long Nate could just coast along, forgetting that he was himself in a class of looks and charisma better suited to people who could carry off green sparkles on a red carpet instead of….the bits of green still stuck in what little hair Wade did have. 

“It’s going to be fine, babe,” said Nate and Nate _never_ called Wade anything other than “Wade.” Wade melted a little more into Nate and Nate kissed his forehead, then his nose, and finally his lips. 

“Just remember I told you so,” said Wade nonsensically. It was just…..broadly going to be bad. 

“I will,” promised Nate. 

It was nice to be pampered through his weird attacks of self-doubt like this. Nate didn’t really get the _why_ of these moments---which, if Wade was being honest, was reasonable, since the logic didn’t usually hold up to being said out loud, let alone unpacked for someone else---but he had somehow developed this strategy of sweet little kisses and letting Wade hold on tight and not telling Wade he was wrong, just holding on and. And. It was just nice. 

“Do I have time to shower before she gets here, do you think?” asked Wade. His voice was muffled by the fact that he had pressed his face into the crook of Nate’s neck. 

“Probably not,” said Nate. “But she’s not here to judge you. She’s just picking up Hope.”

“Yeah,” said Wade, unconvinced. 

The front door buzzed and Wade could hear Hope running to the buzzer.

“Check who it is first!” called Nate, not letting go of Wade even a little. 

“I was _gonna_ ,” called Hope. They heard her check and, yes, it was Aliya. “It’s Mom!” Hope confirmed, calling back to the kitchen. “I’m gonna buzz her in!”

“You want to just stay in the kitchen?” asked Nate and pressed another kiss onto the nearest part of Wade’s face, which happened to be his ear. 

“Ugh, no,” said Wade. He stepped back. He had green goo caked in his hair, he was wearing one of Piotr’s bright yellow crop tops (which, on him, only just barely exposed his belly button), and he was going to stand right next to all the reasons why Nate should dump him post haste. This was a terrible idea. 

But he was going to do it anyway. 

“Thattaboy,” said Nate. 

Hope had opened the door and was sticking her head into the hallway waiting for Aliya to make it up the stairs. Wade could hear the approach of high heels clicking on the floor. 

“Hey, baby,” said Aliya, scooping Hope up for a kiss when she got to the door. 

Hope squirmed and protested, “ _Moooom_ ,” but also looked secretly pleased. 

“Damn, son,” said Russell fervantly. He turned to Nate and help up a fist for a fist bump. “Respect.”

Nate glared at him and he lowered the fist with a shrug. 

“Aliya, this is Wade,” said Nate, keeping a hand firmly around Wade’s waist. 

“Wade, it’s so fucking good to finally meet you,” said Aliya. She pulled him out of Nate’s grasp easy-peasy and pressed a kiss to each cheek. “I am _so fucking glad_ you dumbasses worked this out.”

OK, so this was already not going quite as Wade expected. 

“Wait, _what_?” he said. 

“Nate was a whiny little bitch for the entire final month of arbitration,” Aliya continued. “I mean, you want your divorce to be a bloodbath, am I right? Grind the souls of men under your Jimmy Choos? And here’s this sad bastard---” she flapped a perfectly manicured hand towards Nate who shrugged like _fair cop, guv_ “---just barely holding back from openly weeping. Let me tell you, it is hard to grind the souls of men under your Jimmy Choos when the souls of men are soggy from UST.”

“...I can see that,” agreed Wade. 

“I assume, given the horrifically blissful nonsense he’s been spouting recently, that you put him out of his misery,” she said. “Good on you.”

“Oh my god,” said Russell in awe. “She’s _perfect_.”

“Yes, well, I try,” said Aliya and _winked_ at him. 

“Nate, bruv, why the hell are you slumming it with _Wade_ when you’ve got the game to pull someone like _her_?” asked Russell. 

Wade closed his eyes. Trust Russell to just _say it_. 

“Rude,” said Hope and smacked Russell’s shoulder. “Wade’s standing right there.”

Wade sighed. Better to bite the bullet or whatever. “No, he’s got a point,” he said, opening his eyes. “It is one of the mysteries of the ages.”

“See?” said Russell and stuck his tongue out at Hope. 

“No, he doesn’t have a point,” said Nate, frowning. “I’m not ‘slumming it’ with you, Wade.”

“You _really_ are,” said Wade, aiming for cheerful, “but I guess that’s just your major malfunction.”

“Wade,” said Nate, frown deepening. “I’m _not_.”

“Oooh, boy,” said Aliya. “Hope, baby, we’re leaving now.” She pointed towards Russell. “You. Whoever you are. You’re leaving too. We’re giving you a ride.”

“I don’t need a--” Russell started to protest, but Hope stepped on his foot. “OK, _fine_ , drive me three blocks, see if I care.”

“Wade,” said Nate again, reaching out, but Wade ducked away from him. 

“Do you wanna take your pizza home, Hope?” he asked. “I can go get it.”

Hope bit her lip, checked with her mom. “Yeah,” she admitted. When Aliya coughed loudly, she added, “Please?”

Wade closed the Hawaiian pizza box and handed it over.

She hugged his knees before taking the box from him. “You’re _great_ , Wade,” she said fiercely. 

“Yeah, I didn’t mean--” said Russell, guilty. “I was just--”

“Yeah, man, I know,” said Wade. “It’s all good.”

Russell nodded, relieved, and was herded out with Hope by Aliya. 

“I’ll see you around, Wade,” said Aliya. “Keep your chin up.” Then, vaguely appalled at herself: “Ugh, _boys_.”

“Wade,” said Nate again, louder. “ _I’m not_.”

Wade closed the door and rested his forehead against it briefly. 

“Look,” he said without turning around, “I look like me and you look like you and those are the facts.”

“What facts?” asked Nate, coming closer. “Those are just sentences.” He wrapped his arms around Wade from behind. It was nice. Still didn’t change things. 

“Here are some facts _I_ know,” continued Nate after a long pause. “You’ve got all these people who love you and treat you like family and I had to build mine from the ground up.”

Wade tried to turn around then, but Nate was holding too tight. A little panicked tightly, even. 

“And you’re clever and funny and nice in ways you don’t even notice,” Nate continued. “And everything in the world has conspired to make you mean and you just---you just won’t.”

“Excuse you,” said Wade around a damp catch in his throat, “I am _plenty_ mean.”

“Yeah, and you’re sharp sometimes, and I never can predict what you’ll say next and, god, the lingerie--” said Nate and when Wade tried to turn again, Nate relaxed his grip enough to let him. “But me, I just always say the wrong thing and I never know how to put someone at ease and...and not everybody can see past the arm--”

“That arm is sexy,” interjected Wade wetly. “I will take _so much offense_ if you say shit about that arm. Be warned.”

“From where I’m standing, _you’re_ the one who’s slumming it with _me_ ,” Nate finished. 

“That’s so dumb, though,” said Wade, fervently. “You’re the actual best.”

“See?” said Nate, like Wade was proving some part of that tirade of nonsense.“I love you, Wade.”

Wade blinked. He hadn’t even gotten to the point where he could even think the word “boyfriends,” without stuttering and here was Nate leveling up to the boss fight. 

“Oh,” he said. Then: “Um.”

Nate grinned. “You don’t have to say it ba--”

“I love you,” said Wade in a rush. “I love you too,” he repeated, slower. 

Nate looked gobsmacked. 

“Just…” said Wade because a redirection was so very much in order. Wade was slowly building a tolerance for all the feelings Nate wanted to talk about, but it was slow going. Baby steps. “Just take me to bed, Mr. Feelings.”

“You love me?” asked Nate, delighted. “So am I your _boyfriend_ now?” He was fishing, Wade knew he was fishing, but still. 

“You’re definitely something,” said Wade. He meant it for a laugh, but the tone came out all wrong. It was all earnest and gooey instead. 

Ugh. Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few final notes:
> 
> 1\. Wade gets "weird" about Girl Scout cookies by buying out any Girl Scout he encounters. He just...the whole kit and caboodle. He buys everything they've got.  
> 2\. Just in case you're wondering, Wade's show is being shopped around at this point. It will eventually be a huge hit called, "Deadpool."  
> 3\. The drama of Piotr/Kitty is very Intense and also hilarious. Kitty is a world class prima ballerina. She is Important. She does not have TIME for all the feelings about Piotr and is hoping to just basically fuck him out of her system. It will not work.  
> 4\. Nate eats organic. He shops at Whole Foods. He unironically loves soy milk.  
> 5\. Wade serenades Nate with "[You're The Top](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rZViKrO-pMo)" from _Anything Goes_. He has no idea that Nate is harboring a slight grudge about the lack of butt songs. 
> 
> I'm considering doing a Nate POV or a short Kitty/Piotr side story. Thoughts?

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Come Rain or Come Shine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15103292) by [ifeelbetter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifeelbetter/pseuds/ifeelbetter)




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